


the perfect specimen

by PikaCheeka



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Child Abuse References, Drugs, M/M, Sadism, bottom Trip, dubcon, medical gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 10:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7432579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PikaCheeka/pseuds/PikaCheeka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after their release, Virus pays a visit to Toue Inc's head medical researcher when he hears that someone there has been telling Trip his secrets, but the visit takes an unexpected turn when he has the chance to see his partner's medical records. Finally being able to enjoy his suffering is too much of a temptation for Virus to resist...</p>
            </blockquote>





	the perfect specimen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acatfeet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acatfeet/gifts).



> This IS a ViTri fic, though it opens with ToueIncDoctor x Virus. I purposefully kept him nameless/faceless because he's largely irrelevant. It's simply what he has, and what Virus wants, that is important. There are a couple of references to child abuse, but otherwise it's just the usual freaky sex and medical gore that comes with this ship. Written for Day 5 of ViTri week (Violence/Captivity). This is probably my nastiest ViTri fic to date but it is one I am pretty happy with! Dedicated to acatfeet who totally feeds my disgusting medical guro ViTro whims.
> 
> I may or may not write a sequel to this that builds out of the final scene, depending on time & interest.

“Who told Trip?”

If he is startled to see Virus in his apartment, he hides it well. Instead, the head doctor at Toue Inc.’s research institute leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers, smiles with the same leer burned into memory from so many years ago when he’d first told him that spinal taps didn’t hurt. “It’s been a while. How are you doing these days, working for Toue?”

Virus slides around the question, letting them pass through him. He isn’t interested in chatting, not when Trip’s words hang heavily over him. An unpleasant conversation last night, Trip curled around him, lazily smoking and tracing circles over the bite marks on his thighs. In all the years he’d known the younger man, he knows that Trip has never been one to find the proper moment to bring something up. In this instance, the proper moment would have been never. “Someone told him I let you fuck me to protect him.”

“That must have made for an uncomfortable chat. Is he the jealous type?”

He almost says no, almost points out that sometimes Trip watches him get fucked by other men, sometimes Trip himself goes out with women, sometimes the two of them pick up some hapless fool at a club or in a back alley and torture him together. But he says nothing, and he remembers that unreadable simmering in Trip’s eyes twenty-one hours ago when he slowly asked how many times Virus bent over for a particular doctor at the institute. No, Trip isn’t the jealous type, but he is _something_. Protective.  Hands running down his sides and a soft murmur against his neck telling him that if he becomes him, it will be easier to protect him, that they’ll never be apart again, and blonde hair and blue eyes and matching earrings will somehow assure that, moments before he’d laughed and bitten Virus’ ear and acted as if he’d never said anything at all. And so Virus ignores this question, too. “He said you never would have touched him anyway.”

“I wouldn’t have. I don’t like him. I didn’t touch him when you were gone, did I?” He shrugs and leans back in his chair. There is a bottle of wine on the table beside him and Virus notices, with a certain level of unease, that there are two glasses.

Trip wouldn’t say either way. Trip, who recoils from all human touch unless it’s from Virus himself, who reacts with a violence so pure as to be automatic. He’s never discussed what happened to him those two years when the older man was free while he remained behind, and Virus never asked. All he knows is that Trip had been so awful at the institute without him, so regressive in his behavior and so vicious in his cruelty, that they had released him at fourteen and simply continued his treatments during visits, in the hopes that being near Virus again would calm him. “So it was just to fuck me?”

“I regularly drugged you for surgery. I could have done that anytime. But perhaps I was interested to see how far you’d go for him. You went quite far.”

“It wasn’t for him.”

“Interesting,” he nods slowly and pours wine with such care and precision that it demands Virus’ attention. “I hear you’re lovers now?”

He fixates on the wine glasses and remains silent a moment. They are slightly, recognizably, different, and the doctor takes care to only drink from one. A drug easier to avoid than the stealth of a needle. He will never touch anything from this man again, he reflects before calmly replying, “We fuck.”

“You live together and love one another and have sex. I believe that’s what proper adults call lovers, isn’t it?”

Virus’ eyes are cold, but there is an absence of emotion in them that seeps into the air around him. He doesn’t expect anyone else to understand what exists between them, what does _not_ exist between them, because they are one unit, one seamless entity so in tune it is impossible for them to know where one begins and one ends, and therefore any _between-ness_ cannot properly exist. Love is not a word he’s ever considered when he touches his fingertips to Trip’s in the darkness and mistakes them for his own. “You think I love him because I whored myself out to save his ass?”

The doctor shrugs, corner of his mouth twitching upwards in a half smile. He doesn’t have to say how amusing he finds them. He’d said it often enough to Virus as a child. _You’re nothing but an experiment._

Virus’ eyes narrow as he sneers, “I did it because he’s mine.”

“It sounds like it’s the other way around from what I have heard.”

He catches himself before his fingers can tug at his collar, hiding the bruises and teethmarks over his throat, and scowls. As if Trip entering him in bed implies that he’s the one being owned. It figures he would think that. He supposes it’s time to change the subject because this one makes him uneasy in a way he hadn’t expected possible, a way that is at once auditory and tangible, a creeping static filling his mind and his ribcage, and he wonders if Trip’s sensory processing problems are rubbing off on him. After all this years, it’s all he can expect.

That is what he can change the subject to. Trip will never tell him because he will never ask, but he needs to know. “I want his file. Everything. I know you keep them here.” _In your home. Away from the prying eyes of Toue and any other doctors there who might have begun to wonder back then why you spent so much time with one particular blonde child despite being the head of the program, why morphine disappeared so regularly on your shifts, why a few other male researchers would slide money into your pockets sometimes, why that one blonde child seemed to loathe you so much…_

“That’s illegal. Patient confidentiality,” he makes a soft tut-tuting noise before grinning, eyes sweeping up and down Virus’ figure. “What will you give me in return?”

Virus swallows his disgust and grins, smoothes his tie flat. So vile and yet so predictable, just as all humans are. He’d learned that quickly enough at the institute, even before this particular doctor laid hands on him. But Virus adapts, adjusts, survives. He jokes that he mutates after his namesake, in order to handle anything, dominate and control anyone, manipulate the worst of scenarios to his benefit and kill what doesn’t fit into the greater plan, but he knows it isn’t a joke because it’s his life and it’s been his life since he was a pretty nine-year-old sold to a laboratory. “The usual. No kissing though.”

“Fair enough.”

“Are all the photos in there?”

“You want his kiddie photos? You’re fucked up.”

“I didn’t see him for two years. I want to know what he looked like.” He doesn’t point out that this man did something far more than just look at his photos when he was a kid, just as he doesn’t point out that it isn’t the age but the suffering that interests him, that he and Trip are so close in _being_ that he needs to see just _exactly_ what was done to him. What he and Trip have, are, whatever that is, is not for this man to know, and he can think what he likes. “Oh and I want them now. Beforehand.”

“Can I trust you to wait here?”

“You’re a fool to ever trust me.”

He smiles now as he places the half-empty glass back on the table and stands. “You’re still the perfect specimen.” The words crawl down Virus’ spine and he stiffens slightly, but he doesn’t have time to respond before the doctor continues. “I hope you don’t wear a gun when you do this for your other _clients_.”

Virus tilts his head as if listening, but makes no move to take off the gun holster beneath his jacket. There is no secrecy in Toue Inc., not when one has spent the majority of their life as a lab rat under the company’s care. He knows he has a reputation by now, just as Trip does for different reasons, but it only serves to benefit him in the end. He always gets what he wants.  And so he stands still until the older man steps out of the room before sidling into his chair, taking a sip of wine from his glass, leaving the drugged one untouched. It crosses his mind to wonder how his visit was expected, but the thought is dismissed as quickly as it emerges. It doesn’t matter.

He waits until he hears a door somewhere deep in the house, the screech of metal indicating a safe being opened, before moving across the room again to the couch.

Again, he waits, until the other man returns before he unbuckles his belt and drops his pants in one fluid motion, stepping out of them and kicking them to the side as he unbuttons his jacket, loosens his tie. But he doesn’t take it off, doesn’t touch his shirt, only holds his hand out and gestures for the folder. “Underwear off after I get the goods.”

“Even now, you don’t like undressing fully, huh?”

“Only for Trip. Also only Trip goes in without a condom. You better have one.”

“Why am I not surprised.” It isn’t even a question, but he hands the folder over.

Virus only shrugs. His eyes are gleaming and greedy as he immediately thumbs through the medical file, a folder filled with easily a hundred sheets, dozens of photos, a thumb drive in a plastic envelop attached to the cover. He holds the pages up to his face and breathes in deeply. The paper smells of death and horror and base brutality and a thousand other things he was raised on in those sterile white rooms, and he remembers the touch of Trip’s fingers against his throat the night after his eyes were taken from him. _I wanted to see you blind as you saw me_.

 “Tell me about Trip.” The voice interrupts his thoughts.

He closes the folder slowly and slips his briefs off with one hand. The cool air of the room hits him and he suppresses a shudder, but he’s more aroused now than he was before he smelled those pages and a familiar heat is already pooling in his belly. _Anticipation_ , not for the sex but for the interior of this folder, the secrets denied him all these long years, and he lets the doctor gently push him into his knees on the couch, bend him forward. He barely even notices, the file on the cushion before him far more distracting than the man behind him. “I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I don’t. But you two are…interesting. We placed bets on when you’d first fuck, you know.”

“How pedestrian,” Virus rolls his eyes, pulling a random page from the file as he does, and abruptly gasps. He doesn’t know if it’s the hand on his dick or the photo suddenly in front of him. Trip, already nearly Virus’ adult height, three tubes in a neat row in the base of his spine as he looks over his shoulder at the camera. His eyes are still green, still capable of showing pain and wrath and fear, all things he left behind those white walls so many years ago, but he isn’t much younger than he was when they first... “Five months after he got out. I’ll tell you how he screws me if you tell me about what you did to him.”

“Are you really getting off on surgical photos of your lover?” He sounds mystified, intrigued, possibly irritated that Virus is so distracted.

“Stop calling him that,” but he is grinning as he speaks, tapered fingers tracing over the surgical stitches visible on Trip’s abdomen. He remembers a pale line and nothing more. “He scars less than me, huh?”

“He heals better and faster than you. And you used to rip stitches out. We used to think he’d be the type for that, not you.”

“Yea, I don’t like you touching me is why.” Even as he says it, he can feel the fingers tighten around his member as the doctor’s other hand strays up his back, running over his shoulders, pulling his collar back to touch the scars at the base of his neck. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s turned the page and _there_.

Gauze taped over his eye sockets, bandages wrapped around his head, blood visible in the folds. He ignores the lube as best he can, hissing softly at the sudden, wet coolness. The arousal is snapping through his limbs now, the heat he only normally feels when Trip is fucking him coiling in the pit of his stomach and clawing its way towards his groin, tearing him apart as it goes. But it isn’t Trip behind him. He’s merely in front of him, a flat image of a boy bleeding from his covered eye sockets, metal collar to monitor his body a dark band around his neck, red hair cropped close, fingernails snapped and splintered from clawing the walls before they threw him in a padded cell. There is no need to see his eyes to know what he is experiencing. Virus had heard that he had behaved badly once he left, that he’d stopped speaking, that he’d regressed back to brutal violence and loathing. He’d heard about the electro-convulsive shock treatments, the straightjacket, the padded rooms, the stem cell therapy they’d forced on him in the hopes that all the bruises and broken bones would be worth it, but he’d never seen any of it, and the rage and disgust he’d felt during those phone calls so many years ago turns into a visceral ecstasy now as he runs his fingers over the photos before him. He wonders if Trip remembers these days without him, if they seep into his mind when the two of them fuck.

“Did he cry much?” He asks abruptly, arching his back when the doctor behind him pushes a finger in. And he remembers the other half of the deal. “He makes me cry sometimes. I can’t shed tears thanks to you guys fucking up my eyes but you know how that is. He can be rough enough for it. It’s fun.”

“You’re easy enough to make cry.”

“I don’t believe that’s a fair analysis considering how old I was then.” It is a comment that might have irritated him in other circumstances, but here, now, with these files in front of him, the response rolls off his tongue without a second thought about the doctor’s implications. Virus almost purrs as he flips the page to see the notes. _Post-op SSI in left. Inflammation, redness, sensitivity to light, headaches (possible; patient unclear). 1% tetracaine 3xd. Penicillin… NOTE: Attempts to remove bandages._ There are more details, words he has heard and seen before but can’t place in his knowledge, but it is enough to read them. Then finally, as if an afterthought, _Will only repeatedly say that he needs to make sure they’re blue_.

“Not as bad as yours. Just an infection but no rejection like you had.”

He senses the doctor move again behind him, feels something press against his ass, and jerks forward, leaning away from him, one pale tapered fingers to his lips. “Ah ah. One moment. You didn’t answer my question. Did he cry much?”

“You’re really deranged,” he sighs. “Yes, he did.”

“Hm. I haven’t seen him cry since we were children.” He settles back. “Carry on.” He continues to flip through the file, absorbing as much as he can and skimming as fast as he dares. Reading hundreds of medical texts as a child did surprisingly little to enhance his comprehension of many of the words he now sees, but he can get the general message, the suffering transcribed across the pages. Several minutes pass thus, all the while Virus making a point to ignore everything behind him. He’d learned long ago that the easiest way to irritate an older man was to show blatant disinterest in his sexual prowess, or lack thereof, as was the case here.

“You could show your appreciation a bit more, considering how interested you are in that.” The doctor says suddenly, as if knowing what Virus is thinking. But he also knows better than to expect any real reaction from the younger man, and when he continues, it isn’t about any failure to react. “Tell me about you two. Anything.”

A reasonable request, considering the exchange. Virus smiles lazily, flips another page. Shame has never been a strong point of his. “We take a lot of drugs, aphrodisiacs. There’s a lot of fun ones out there, and we have such a strong tolerance for them we can risk just about anything… Sometimes we slip them to each other without warning, just to shake things up. He can come three or four times in me with the right ones, and he always finds the right ones. Anyway he always does whatever he wants with me. It’s a pain sometimes but I let him have his way.” He finds his hand reflexively moving towards his dick, thumbing his slit and sliding fingers down his shaft, as the words spill from him and he pushes back against the man behind him. Reading about Trip’s pain while talking about his sex is strangely arousing, and he suddenly remembers the nights back at the Institute when Trip would fall asleep whimpering from whatever surgery had just been carried out while Virus silently jerked off to the sounds. 

It hadn’t seemed to be much, but apparently the doctor doesn’t expect much of Virus, because he sighs softly against the back of his neck and continues the exchange, setting an uncomfortably slow pace. “He was really bad those two years. ECT wasn’t enough to control him sometimes. We eventually performed a combined stereotactic bilateral cingulotomy and anterior capsulotomy, but I’m sure you knew that.” He pauses. “You never used to touch yourself before.”

Virus almost lets go of himself; he hadn’t even noticed where his hands were, but now he feels the thumb rubbing his slit, the sticky wetness running down the fingers of his left hand, the heat and hardness beneath them. “You never told me about Trip before.” He doesn’t say that he hadn’t known about the brain surgeries, doesn’t ask if that’s what the scar along Trip’s hairline is, doesn’t wonder if the paperwork for them is somewhere in this folder, but he files the words away in the back of his mind and turns the page with his free hand. He knows he is close now, distracted enough by the words and images sinking into his memory and infusing his marrow with a vibrant sadism that he scarcely registers the stimulation from behind. He’s always been good at this, good at compartmentalizing, at being able to withdraw from what he does with the worst of his clients – and this man is one of the worst – by merely thinking about something, some _one_ , else. He is a virus, ever adaptive.

“You’re not telling me much about him.”

“How forgetful of me. He chokes me sometimes. By surprise. When I’m fucked out and ready to quit but he wants more, he cuts off my air. He’s stronger now than you could imagine, than he himself knows. It’s bad sometimes. I can even black out.” The ease with which he speaks while being fucked in the ass doesn’t surprise him, but he can sense a growing disquiet in the doctor and he bites back a grin before continuing. “Have you ever been choked during sex? It’s painful, horrifying. You’re already so vulnerable, not in control of your faculties as it is, and then suddenly, ah. The air stops coming. You feel pain on your neck for a few seconds, but you forget it immediately, forget the dick in your ass…” As he says this, he pushes back to remind the doctor that he hasn’t forgotten, that he simply isn’t affected enough by his weak efforts to be unable to speak. “…and the teethmarks on your shoulders and everything but the loss of air, the blackness crowding the peripherals of your vision, suffocating your sight in a way that parallels your slow loss of consciousness. It’s such a primal panic, one of the deepest fears of all humans, but the way he does it…ah, it really gets me off. I like being at his mercy. I like the way he looks at me when he hurts me. It’s not the same as the look he gives everyone else. I’m sorry, is this making you uncomfortable?”

“No.” The answer comes too quickly to be honest. “Funny you should mention the sight fading.” He pauses, grunts, and Virus rolls his eyes. _Tiresome_.

“Oh?”

“He’s terrified of being blinded. Taking his eyes was…” Another pause, another grunt. “The only thing we did that struck fear into him.”

“Hm.” His dick jerks in his hands and he can feel the approach of orgasm now at the mere thought of Trip being afraid of something.

“Your ass just clenched.”

“Thanks for the update,” he almost snaps the words, agitated and on the verge now, but manages to control himself. He can almost feel the doctor’s leer behind him. “Tell me about his fear.”

“What’s to say? He shakes. Trembling that begins in his shoulders and rapidly spreads. He cries, when he has eyes to cry with. Keens like a dog. Not a human sound at all. Makes it whenever we covered his eyes.”

He bites his lip until he tastes blood. Blindfolds. They’d used them a couple of times, but he was usually drugged out or too shitfaced to notice much of what was happening, to remember details the next morning. Had Trip ever worn one? He can’t remember. He knows he has, numerous times, but Trip? It’s amazing what he can get away with not doing sometimes, the way he slips through Virus’ fingers when he makes vile suggestions and manages to maintain control of the situation more often than not. He licks his lips now, smearing blood over his teeth. He’ll have to amend that _tonight_ , and that is his last conscious thought.

Virus orgasms hard, hips stuttering several times as he comes into his hand, onto the couch, his sadism a glistening whiteness that he absently brings to his mouth; seared behind his eyelids is the image of Trip, tubes planted into the base of his spine and the back of his neck, green eyes filled with wrath and pain and an inexplicable _something_ he had only seen once before, the day he had told him, flat-toned and impeccably distant, that he was leaving the institute and they might never see one another again. He doesn’t know what that emotion is and he doesn’t care, because like so much about Trip, there is such an intimacy between them that the lines are blurred, their bodies bleed together, their fingers touch at  night and leave him uncertain as to which hand belongs to whom, that he feels no need to ever question it. He will cover those eyes, lock that _something_ inside his stapled skull and ensure that it will always be there for him, that he can peel the layers of gauze off his face days later and lick the tears from his identical blue eyes and know that he has seen him at his weakest, his most terrified. He wonders if he will be able to feel that visceral horror, if they are connected enough to not only feed off of his pain but to be one with it.

He doesn’t notice the doctor finishing, doesn’t notice him sliding out and leaning back. He only hears the words, spoken softly and tiredly behind him. “You can use my shower.”

“I’ll clean up at home,” he sighs as he rolls off the couch and reaches for his pants. Deftly pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wipes himself off before rapidly dressing, scarcely taking his eyes from the folder still on the couch. Yes. He’ll clean up at home, and then shove Trip into bed and take charge for once tonight. It’d been weeks, nearly a month, since he last did that, after all. A faint smile pulls at the corner of his mouth as he remembers the taste of Trip’s uncertainty. It will be all the more tantalizing now, after seeing what he has just seen. _A few choice words whispered at just the right moment._ Trip is not nearly as in control of his memories as Virus is. And perhaps, perhaps…

Nearly a minute passes before the doctor speaks again, his voice soft, incredulous. “That’s it?”

“Of course that’s it.” Virus startles. He’d almost forgotten he was there, but he smoothes the action over, finishes straightening his tie and calmly picks his jacket up off the floor before reaching for the papers. “I have the file, and you aren’t going to spread any more rumors about me that Trip might hear.”

“I thought you were coming to finally kill me.”

“Why would I?” He is genuinely surprised as he freezes and stares at the older man.

“Because back then, I…”

“I don’t care about it though.”

“You really aren’t even human, you know.”

He only shrugs. “Thanks for the file.” The gratitude may be insincere but the satisfaction isn’t. He pauses a moment at the door before smiling, thin lips peeled back to reveal too many teeth. “I’ll have fun with Trip tonight.”

And he turns on his heel and marches into the hall, spread fingers touching his teeth in delight as he hears the startled protests of the doctor behind him. Pity his favorite experiment isn’t about to divulge, but that’s part of the fun, after all.

 

\---

 

“Hey, Trip.” Fingers tracing routes through the sweat on those wide shoulders he knows so well as he leans forward and gently takes his ear between his teeth. They’d only fucked twice but he feels as if it had been more, as if he’d been inside of him in some form or another for hours. He isn’t used to topping, and Trip took longer than expected to prepare.

Trip only grunts in response. He’s even more exhausted than Virus is, a rare occasion brought on by Virus’ unexpected excitement tonight. _Aren’t you a little old to be this frisky? You act like you’re coming out of a dry spell._ But the older man had explained nothing, hadn’t mentioned the file he’d shoved in his desk upon arriving home, hadn’t even said where he’d gone, though Trip knew him well enough to know by now that he’d just come from another tedious encounter. He liked Virus excited, and even as little as he enjoyed being on the receiving end of sex, he tolerated it for that reason.

“You look sexy with your eyes covered.” He can feel his muscles tighten the moment he says it, an almost imperceptible motion, and he salivates at the apprehension pulsing through his fingertips.

“When…” he trails off into silence, and Virus waits patiently, letting the realization dawn on him slowly, letting him come to his own conclusions about what Virus knows. But he surprises the older man with his next statement. “Want me to wear a blindfold next time?”

Virus grins, presses his mouth to the back of Trip’s neck, at the scar just above his seventh cervical vertebrae, and whispers the response. “I’d like that.”

He holds his fingers still as he speaks, and feels the trembling take root.


End file.
